PALO VERDE PALACE

“If for some reason this ironically hits a bit too close to home, hey, I didn’t give out the complete address.”

Come summer months when the temperature’s above 100, my wife and I get commonly asked, “Are you guys okay. I haven’t seen you outside in ages?”

Like many seniors, we spend a good deal of time indoors, but that doesn’t mean we’re ill or hurting. I’m generally in my garage working on projects while Joleen sews and reads.

I’ve heard other older people in town say the same. Some of my friends won’t stop by unless the garage door is up, and that hardly ever happens during peak temperatures. It’s now air-conditioned, so letting all of the cool air escape would be wasteful.

Some older folks in Havasu make extra money by peddling things on Marketplace or eBay, while others are crafty. I’ve observed stained-glass artwork and carved-wood figurines for sale at various locations, made by seniors. I suppose these items are manufactured in their homes and garages during the scorching heat of June through September.

Others still work because they need the bucks, or just want to stay busy, and we come across these individuals all around town working in various places. I now forget where I ran into a restaurant employee who said she was in her 80s. The woman was quite spry despite her years.

I penned another one of those hypothetical poems or songs slanted towards a fictitious couple, the Spooners, living on Palo Verde. These imaginary residents are crafty as well, but in a different fashion. They rarely leave their house all year long, except in December, when they jet to Hawaii for a month.

If, for some reason, this tall tale ironically hits a bit too close to home, hey, I didn’t give out the complete address if one does exist. In a larger town, back when taxis were the main source of transportation for visitors, all you needed to do to find houses of ill repute was ask a cab driver. I’m not sure UBER offers the same.

“BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

The old couple living on the corner.

Both are hardly seen outside of their home.

Neighbors assume that they’re just loners.

Choosing to live by themselves all alone.

*****

Boyd and Sue come across as fragile.

Often use walkers or ornate wood canes.

This is all for a definite reason.

To make folks think that they’re lame.

*****

The Palo Verde Palace holds a big secret.

One that the neighborhood does not see.

It’s an after-hours gambling joint.

Complete with slots and video poker screens.

*****

All guests arrive through the back door.

Vehicles are parked on adjoining streets.

Because they come late in the evening.

Most of the residents are fast asleep.

*****

Boyd and Sue Spooner make thousands.

So much that they launder it out.

Ambulances will pull into their driveway.

Hauling away Franklins, Jacksons, and Grants.

*****

The Spooners shut down each December.

An unmarked hearse always stops by.

Word quickly spreads through the grapevine,

That one of the octogenarians has died.

*****

This has been going on for ten years now.

Neighbors have yet to fully see the light.

Both entrepreneurs are thinking of retiring.

Yet it’s hard for them to give up this life.

*****

Should LHPD ever catch on to things.

Or the IRS attempts to get in their way.

Boyd has rehearsed exactly what to say here.

It’s merely part of our 401-K.”

Elderly man and woman counting and bundling stacks of US hundred-dollar bills at a wooden table

BMW

“Instead of Bavarian Motor Works, Jim’s nickname is By-itch, Moan, and Whine.”

Four older mechanics repairing a classic red Alfa Romeo car engine in a vintage Italian garage

I once tuned in to a popular NPR radio show called “Car Talk,” hosted by brothers Tom and Ray Magliozzi. The siblings went by the pseudonyms Click and Clack Tappet on the air. This production originally aired from 1977 to 2012 and featured an engaging mix of car advice, humor, and listener calls.

The Magliozzi brothers, known for their comedic banter and relatable stories, would tackle a range of automotive questions while entertaining listeners with their quick wit and chemistry. Both cast themselves as simple garage mechanics, although each graduated from MIT with an engineering degree.

The show became a beloved staple of public radio, appealing to car enthusiasts and casual listeners alike. Their catchphrases and playful interactions contributed to the show’s charm, making it a memorable part of many people’s weekends.

I first came across this talk show while traveling in Arizona and became addicted to it. Being a mechanic myself, I didn’t always agree with their advice, but they were ‘spot on’ most of the time. To me, the funniest part was the interaction between callers and the Tappet brothers.

It was easy to hear that some of those callers were dangerous, especially when they had wrenches in their hands. What I mean here is that select people should outsource work to professionals rather than attempt it themselves.

I once tried to do some plumbing without really knowing the basics. This was before YouTube made it somewhat easy. Black pipe was used during a new hot water heater install, and before long, electrolysis between the steel and copper created a major leak and ruined the tank. I only found this out after a veteran plumber laughed at what he saw.

On “Car Talk,” some listeners constantly asked the brothers technical questions that only someone with a computer analyzer could answer. I knew right then these callers shouldn’t be working on their own vehicles to begin with. I kept waiting for one of the Tappets to jokingly instruct a caller to place their phone near the problem car or truck.

Over the years, I’ve watched friends, family, and strangers attempt automotive work and finally give up. The reason for this to begin with was that they didn’t want to pay someone. This was true not only for car repairs but also for roofing, plumbing, electrical work, and other tasks.

In a garage where I was employed, a customer would occasionally bring in what we called a “basket case.” This was a multitude of uninstalled parts, generally in a box or boxes, that this person rounded up after admitting defeat. These jobs cost that individual much more than if they had simply left things alone.

Most guys who refuse to use automotive professionals complain that the cost is much higher than they think the job is worth. Of course, when they purchase a designer cup of coffee for $8, they never say a thing, even leaving a whole $10 bill to cover the tip.

“Car Talk” is no longer in production. When Tom Magliozzi passed away on November 3, 2014, at the age of 76, from side effects of Alzheimer’s, the show ceased to exist. I mourn the loss because it was one of the best public radio programs to ever air.

The other day, a friend who owned a successful import-car garage told me that BMW owners complained about their bills more than customers of other brands did.  German automobile parts are more expensive than American or Japanese equivalents.

Former garage owner Jim Brownfield has a humorous name for BMW. Instead of Bavarian Motor Works, Jim’s nickname is By-itch, Moan, and Whine. I changed the spelling of the first word here to avoid being overly derogatory, while the pronunciation is the same as the original.

With “Car Talk” now gone, I’d like to see a new radio or television program where callers with a negative bent complain about the supposed high prices of auto shops, plumbers, electricians, roofers, gasoline, groceries, and anything else in between. Hey, we can even add hair stylists to that list. I’ve heard many women gripe about the beauty shops they go to.

I’d name this show, “BMW.” The program would have two female panelists, preferably sisters, with folks either calling in or appearing in person to cry, moan, and whine, especially about our government and politicians.

When I told my wife about this idea, she replied right away, “There already is such.” Not knowing what she was talking about, I point-blank had to ask. “The View!” Joleen then informed me, “Those five women are the Debbie Downers of the television world!”

I’ve only watched a small segment of “The View” and found it totally irritating. If it were made into a radio program like “Car Talk,” I’m not sure I could still drive and handle the smack without first popping a couple of Prozac.

The Magliozzi brothers were positive and uplifting to listen to. My idea for a replacement radio program, based on people’s complaints, no longer sounds so enlightening.

In fact, the thought of two estrogen and hormone-impaired individuals sitting behind microphones, handing out negative complaints and advice to other disgruntled people, is unbelievably frightening.

Two women wearing headphones speaking into microphones in a radio studio labeled Studio 3

DUKE AND ME

“Diana stayed home for a pedicure and nails.”

Man driving a muddy SUV with a dog sticking head out of rear window

A hundred bucks later, my tank’s full of gas.

Slapped on a credit card cause I ain’t got no cash.

Livin’ on convenience store grub and diet pop.

My colon’s ’bout to burst with the restroom locked.

*****

Out on the road with nothin’ but a wing and a prayer.

The Goodyears are bald, yet they still hold air.

Girlfriend was insistent that “Duke” and I hit the trail.

Diana stayed home for a pedicure and nails.

*****

My Boxer’s good company and is man’s best friend.

The poor mutt, however, ate rank chili and Spam.

Tootin’ and poopin’ in my Subaru back seat.

We drove with windows down ‘til rain turned to sleet.

*****

Thankfully, Comfort Inn allowed pets to stay.

Pity whoever cleaned carpet the very next day.

I didn’t even take time to grab a hot shower.

Smell was so toxic, it would’ve wilted flowers.

*****

Our final destination was New Mexico.

Chose a camping spot just outside Texico.

For two days and nights, we roughed it together.

Lived in a pup tent under inclement weather.

*****

On the drive home, two tires suddenly let go.

Took out both fenders, sailed off the road.

Ended up in a pasture with thirteen grazing cows.

Right next to a farmer’s old antique plow.

*****

Having no jack or spare, we sat and waited.

The wrecker never showed as I anticipated.

At some point, it came time to hitch a ride.

A man happened along; he was sky-high.

*****

Dog and I rode in the back of his old truck.

Bed filled with beer cans and cemetery stuff.

The fellow was a gravedigger with poor hearing.

Told me that dead stiffs were job-securing.

*****

After we’d left, my car burned to a crisp.

Subaru’s wiring shorted from hitting that fence.

“Duke” and I then thumbed it on to Santa Fe.

Spent the night at Motel 6 until ten past eight.

*****

It was now ripe time to make a big decision.

Took my VISA card, headed to Capitol Lincoln.

Charged the down payment, bought a black Aviator.

Celebrated at Wendy’s with two Baconators.

*****

When Diana finds out, she’ll probably flip.

Will regret having us take that camping trip.

No more frugalness for ole “Duke” and me.

From here on out, we’ll both travel in luxury!

Man smiling with a boxer dog in the driver's seat of a black SUV parked outside Hôtel Hermitage Monte-Carlo

THE LAST REUNION

“A friend told me that Todd Fink is bringing his mother.”

Group of elderly people talking beneath a Class of 1972 Reunion banner

* I wrote this for a friend. It’s based on a dream he had and is purely hypothetical.

THE LAST REUNION

“The reunion is close, and I have plenty to fear.

My wrinkled head looks like a baby’s derriere.

Hair started falling out not long after graduation.

A plugged-up shower gave me that first indication.

*****

Jack, Leroy, and Ed all lost their curly locks.

They’ll be attending, claiming baldness still rocks.

It might be for hunks like Dwayne Johnson and Vin Diesel.

But for old farts on Beano, we resemble alien creatures.

*****

If asked by a classmate what I did for a career,

I’ll have to act dumb and pretend I didn’t hear.

Smart kids became doctors and have big homes.

I live in a Winnebago, over thirty feet long.

*****

Former girlfriend will attend with significant other.

A friend told me Todd Fink is bringing his mother.

I plan to ask the neighbor if she’ll be my date.

Brandy’s just nineteen yet mature for her age.

*****

Some Karens will whisper the girl’s a gold digger.

Come to think of it, that’ll make me a winner.

I was never voted ‘most likely to succeed.’

Yet, folks will be talking long after we leave!”

WHAT’S YOUR HURRY?

“Bearded coot in front of me is ridin’ his brakes.”

White compact car and red pickup truck driving on multi-lane highway near University of Arizona exit

I find Monday mornings are the ones to avoid while driving Highway 95 in our city. People seem to be in a bigger hurry that morning than any other. Construction trucks with their trailers are speeding in both directions with commercial vans up the yin-yang.

Trash is flying out of uncovered loads bound for the dump, while young female drivers apply mascara at red lights. I’ve seen just about everything on Monday mornings, along with what appears to be more traffic accidents than on any other day. I’d like to see the LHPD statistics for that.

Unfortunately, I had to take my wife to the phlebotomist this past Monday and couldn’t avoid the hustle and bustle. Parked in the Sonora Quest parking lot, I used that spare time to compose a short poem, if you can even call it that. Perhaps I should label it a song. I don’t know?

It’s written from the perspective of someone late going to work in Havasu on a Monday, like the fellow behind me that day.

“Monday Morning Blues

Come Monday morning, once again late.

Bearded coot in front of me is ridin’ his brakes.

Fool goes the speed limit, and I’m in a rush.

Old codger doesn’t hurry while I try to push.

*****

I need a paycheck, unlike that retired geezer.

My gal loves nice things, do my best to please her.

It’d sure be great not havin’ to punch a clock.

Like when COVID hit, and the government paid us off.

*****

Where’s that dude going at this time of day?

Does he not know he’s blockin’ my way?

Stay home and play checkers, as grandpas should do.

Make a bowl of soft oatmeal that’s easy to chew.

*****

My boss will be ticked, she’ll have my derriere.

Harsh words go unheard as my head’s still not clear.

She’ll prob’ly tell me I smell like the party.

Campfire, hot dogs, stale beer, and spilled Bacardi.

*****

Enjoyed Lake Havasu, all Funday long.

Dancing to music until way past dawn.

I’d make work on time if not for this creep.

Seniors, please stay home on the first day of the week!”

Female construction supervisor talks to male worker in safety gear at construction site

AWAITING CLARICE?

“I’d even spring for the cost.”

When Lake Havasu City was first developed, buyers of lots came from all over the country. Many of them had plans to build here, but a good number of those dreams never came true as age or physical ailment got in the way.

The first property we purchased was from an older couple who no longer could make the big move from Ohio to Arizona. They carried a mortgage note for us, which was quite common in the 1980s.

Other real estate was obtained the same way, with a couple of sellers passing away before we ever paid things off. Their beneficiaries then received the payments. It was sad because we’d developed a friendly rapport with one lady.

A house on Smoketree that I drive by quite regularly has sat empty for several years. Research shows this was a second home for a couple back east, and it appears the husband’s no longer able to make trips out here. He’s up there in age. This happens on a regular basis with snowbirds.

Similar stories can be told about plots in cemeteries. Burial plots are obtained, yet after death, family members know nothing about Ted and Nancy’s plans because they were never fully disclosed.

Estate planners will tell you to write this stuff down and record it. My wife and I have that part of our estate in order. Our gravesite is ready to go with a tombstone on top. All that’s needed to complete things is engraving; hopefully, that won’t be required for another 50 years.

There’s a tombstone in Lake Havasu City that speaks of miscommunication, or perhaps something else went wrong. Hopefully, it’ll be straightened out later, but it’s been nine years now since Clarice’s death. I’m sure I could find similar tales if I looked.

Edward and Clarice Ziner lived at 2095 Eagle Drive for several years. When Edward died of cancer in 2007, he was buried by his wife in Havasu Memorial Gardens, with plans for her to be interred there as well.

Her gravestone sits by his with a birth year but no recorded death date, even though Clarice passed away in 2017. At that point, she was living in Washington State. Public records that I’m privy to don’t show that her remains were ever brought back here, not that they really need to be.

A cross on Clarice’s and Edward’s tombstones indicates they are Christians, as they attended Mount Olive Lutheran Church. The couple is now back together in Heaven, as their earthly bodies no longer contain spiritual souls.

For less than the cost of five gallons of diesel, a brass plate with the date February 3, 2017, etched on it could be screwed onto Clarice’s gravestone, completing things.

I’m sure this doesn’t bother either one of the Ziners, as they’re probably laughing about it, but finishing things would put an end to any further questions from nosey writers like me. I’d even spring for the cost.

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS

“That statement should ruffle a few leftist feathers.”

I recently came across an archaic statement I hadn’t seen or heard in ages. It was actually the title of an episode on a 1960s television show called “The Twilight Zone.”  This segment is called “A Penny For Your Thoughts.”

The plot of this mystery thriller revolves around a man who can read his coworkers’ minds. I highly recommend searching for it on YouTube, as it’s both humorous and thought-provoking.

“A penny for your thoughts” means tell me what you’re thinking, usually said when someone looks distracted, thoughtful, or quiet. I’ve heard it a few times in my life. Mrs. Turner, my sixth-grade teacher, used it more than once when I was daydreaming in class, which was often. It was her polite way of telling me to snap out of it.

The phrase is very old and is commonly traced to Sir Thomas More, who used it in 1522 in his work “Four Last Things.” I’ve never totally read this and can honestly say I don’t plan to, at least not in its entirety. I only mention this last remark because Thomas never finished the work. What he did compose is most excellent.

At the time of Sir Thomas More, a penny was a small but meaningful amount of money, so the idea was: I’ll give you a penny if you share what’s on your mind. Now it’s mostly a friendly, informal expression, not a literal offer of money. People say it to gently invite someone to open up.

With the sad decision to stop making Lincoln cents in the US, “A penny for your thoughts” will eventually go the way of dinosaurs. Twenty years from now, school children will only think of Penny as a female classmate’s name. That statement should ruffle a few leftist feathers.

Changing directions here just slightly, I started collecting different-year Lincoln pennies as a kid, placing them in blue Whitman coin notebooks. There were some Lincoln cents that were quite rare and expensive, with those slots left blank. One of them was the 1909 S-V.D.B.

That penny was minted in San Francisco with V.D.B. standing for the coin designer, Victor David Brenner. Only 484,000 were made. It is considered the 14th most collectible United States coin out of 100. I was fortunate in my later years to finally acquire one.

Youngsters collecting pennies for a hobby, as I did, will undoubtedly suffer because of President Trump’s decision. The reason the United States Mint was instructed by him to do so was that it cost 3.69 cents to manufacture each coin. The year 2025 is the final year of production, although special collector coins will still be struck.

I suppose a new statement will eventually replace “A penny for your thoughts,” though a nickel, dime, or quarter doesn’t quite sound right. Perhaps someday, monetary persuasion won’t even be needed to know what’s on someone’s mind.

If telepathy is ever perfected, AI computers should be able to decipher a person’s facial and body language to the point of recognizing what they’re thinking. Right now, that isn’t possible, but technology is working hard in that direction.

Had Mrs. Turner had a telepathy analyzer in her class in 1965, and zeroed it in on my brain, she would’ve been dumbfounded at what I was thinking. Most of my thoughts were undoubtedly daydreams of still being on the school playground or riding my bike at home, playing with my dogs and cats, and visiting my grandparents in Alabama. I loved visiting my grandparents.

There was nothing really academic or brilliant floating around in my head at that time. A penny for my thoughts back then would’ve been a bargain. These days, those memories are priceless!

DOCTOR JARGON

“Google makes it easy, with perhaps a million definitions alone for head colds.”

Senior male doctor with stethoscope holding a clipboard in hospital

My mother wanted me to become a doctor, but I never made the grade. The closest I got was my first two initials—M.D. She’d be proud of her great-grandson Kevin, who’s now a pre-med student at a college in Ohio.

My career field was automotive, and there is a direct correlation between the medical field and mechanics, as I’ll allude to in a few minutes. First of all, though, I’d like to touch upon some doctor jargon or lingo.

I’ve visited enough doctors over the years to pick up some of their language, as confusing as it is. I believe it’s purposely kept that way to make things tough for patients to ask questions. Most of us don’t want to come across as stupid, so we refrain. I generally go home and look up the medical terms afterward.

Google makes it easy, with perhaps a million definitions alone for head colds. I generally pick the first one, believing it’s probably closest to being correct. Never go to the very end of the list, as that could put you in outer space.

Endoscopy is one of those medical terms that seems twisted. One would think it’s a scope specifically designed to probe the end, yet it can also be placed down the throat. That’s somewhat unnerving to me if you catch my drift.

I’ve had a few sonograms over the past few years and have come away liking them. It’s as close to a massage as I’ll ever get, with the cool-sonogram-gel feeling quite relaxing during hot Arizona summers. The only downside is that it lasts only a few minutes.

Testing me for neuropathy, Dr. Livingstone in Havasu performed what he called an NCS test, short for nerve conduction study. Probes were placed on my legs, and then electricity was induced into them.

This is as close as I’ll ever come to experiencing what death row inmates eventually feel in Texas prisons. NCS should stand for nerve-curdling shock rather than anything else. A very precise test, I came away with the doctor finding I have mild neuropathy, as many seniors do. I highly recommend this test for those with leg pain. It’s the best way to locate the source.

Cardioversion is another one of those technical medical terms. I had a cardioversion when my heart was in atrial fibrillation, with the process thankfully working. If it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be writing this.

Probes were placed on my chest and backside, and when I was under anesthesia, my bebopping heart was shocked back into sinus rhythm. I didn’t feel anything other than when they peeled the sticky probes off my skin. That hurt!

Doctor’s jargon and techniques are slightly different than mechanics. Automotive technicians use sonic stethoscopes to listen to an engine’s internal workings. A former coworker wore one around his neck, as doctors and nurses often do, just as an attention-getter.

We used camera scopes as well, much like the colonoscopy and endoscopes. These are used to peer into cylinders through sparkplug holes. The tool helped determine whether there was any damage to the piston or cylinder walls. They can be used for other tasks, such as checking tight spaces for loose wire connections, or looking up one’s nose.

Medical nerve conduction studies (NCS) using electrical impulses are not much different from some circuit tests used by automotive technicians. Voltage is applied through individual wires by a circuit checker to look for shorts or open circuits. Sometimes a wire will come alive and glow if a short is detected, like a faulty nerve.

Instead of performing cardioversions on hearts, jump-starts were quite common for restarting a dead engine. We had mobile battery packs about the same size as those portable defibrillators seen hanging on hospital walls. I have a couple of them in my home garage, mobile battery packs that is.

I can’t tell you how many vehicle cardioversions I’ve done in my life. Many of these rigs were brought in dead on arrival (DOA) on the hook of a wrecker. The difference between a wrecker and an ambulance is minimal in my mind, aside from the cost of transport. A hospital and a garage are also much the same.

No, I didn’t become a doctor like Mom wanted. Instead, I became a practicing mechanic, using my talents to sometimes bring cars and trucks back from the ravages of neglect and poor maintenance.

Given the number of misdiagnoses I made on vehicles over the years, it’s probably for the best I didn’t become a doctor!

Mechanic holding a stethoscope to a car engine while inspecting it

UNDER CONVICTION

“I don’t use the infamous salute these days, but on occasion, the temptation has surfaced”

Pastor preaching from pulpit to attentive congregation in church

Years ago, when I was in my mid-30s, I attended a church service where the pastor was preaching about something he’d recently seen a member of his flock do. You’ll have to guess what this was for the time being, but it certainly wasn’t someone robbing a bank or convenience store.

After the message ended, I meekly asked an assistant pastor whether Pastor Prevo was using me as an example in his sermon. Glenn Clary gave me a serious stare and then said, “No, Mike, but you’re evidently under conviction.”

That was good to hear, because when I flipped some dude off for suddenly cutting in front of me, I was positive no one had seen me do it besides the other driver. Evidently, someone else in our congregation, in a fit of road rage, also gave the one-finger salute in retaliation, and the pastor observed him.

When I told my wife about it, she said it didn’t matter whether the preacher saw me or not, because God sees everything we do. I knew that, but sometimes, in the heat of battle on city roads while maneuvering through traffic, irritations can bring out the worst in a person.

My mother would’ve told me that my toes were stepped on that Sunday morning, and that my reaction was an old-fashioned way of knowing I was under conviction. When a preacher says he “stepped on someone’s toes” during a sermon, it typically means that his message touched on sensitive or personal topics that made individuals feel uncomfortable or convicted.

It’s often a way of indicating that the preaching brought to light issues or behaviors that need reflection or change. The phrase suggests that the sermon was impactful enough to resonate with someone in the congregation, leading them to reconsider their actions or beliefs.

I don’t use the infamous salute these days, but on occasion, the temptation has surfaced. “Go with the flow” is now my motto. What that means for me is to whisper something under my breath, generally calling them the two-word version of “donkey,” and to avoid any physical contact with the annoying driver by not looking at them.

The other afternoon in rush hour traffic, at the notorious Mulberry and Highway 95 red light, a fellow in front of me thought I was too close to his rear bumper. We were stopped, so what difference did it make?

When the light turned green, he just sat there, trying to make me sit through another red. The antagonist finally took off, and I made it through as well, just as the yellow turned red. Not wanting to deal with this guy any further, I held back. Unfortunately, the light at Swanson caught us, and he suddenly changed lanes, ending up directly beside our Jeep.

Yelling at us with his window rolled down, my wife opened hers to see what the man’s problem was. At this point, the guy started making pig-like grunts and telling us how ugly our vehicle was. I already knew that, so it was no insult. For whatever it’s worth, he appeared to be the same age as us.

Wanting to say something retaliatory in return, I bit my tongue. Watching him continually mouth off, I noticed that the man’s teeth were as yellow as a banana peel. For whatever reason, I shouted across Joleen’s lap, “Have you thought of brushing or flossing?”

That did the trick, because he shut up and took off like a jackrabbit when the light turned green. Joleen had me wheel off Highway 95 at the nearest cross street to avoid additional conflict.

Why he instantly clammed up is easy to answer. My abrupt comment that day undoubtedly placed him under what I’d call hygienic conviction. I’ve been there several times as well. My dental hygienist, Jenn, can always tell when I haven’t flossed and calls me out on it. Her vocal observation helps me to do a better job for the time being.

I suppose preachers and dental hygienists see the power of conviction as being a very useful tool. For most people, it helps them make wiser decisions!

Older man with yellowed teeth wearing a cap and plaid shirt sitting in vintage truck holding steering wheel

ILLUSIONAL?

“I’ve come across blurred photographs of paper plates hanging from strings, with folks jokingly calling them flying saucers.”

Woman looking through a night vision monocular under a starry night sky
A woman uses a night vision monocular to observe the night sky outdoors

UFOs (unidentified flying objects) and UAP (unidentified anomalous phenomena) seem to be on the news more often this past year for various reasons. Many of these sightings turned out to be drones, although the military didn’t exactly disclose who owned them. The words “extraterrestrial” or “alien” were associated with a number of these reports.

Rumors quickly spread that some were Chinese or Russian drones, with citizens threatening to take the law into their own hands and shoot them down with rifles. Only after our government promised to take action did cooler heads prevail.

The Department of War recently released, under President Trump’s authority, former confidential and top-secret reports, photos, and videos of UAPs. I saw nothing here that made me a believer; more on my reason why later.

Our backyard is a great place to watch satellites and airplanes at night. With the recent development of the prestigious Rivera housing development, light pollution has increased, but we’re still able to view the stars and galaxies better than in some parts of town.

On occasion, shooting stars and even the International Space Station (ISS) have been observed. I know it’s the ISS by checking a website that shows its exact location at a given time. This manmade object is also much brighter than the average satellite.

As of 2026, there are an estimated 6,000 active satellites orbiting our planet, supporting everything from communications and weather monitoring to scientific research and navigation, including military surveillance. I’ve counted as many as sixteen in one evening with the naked eye.

For years, I’ve kept hoping I’ll stumble across satellite fragments while hiking around in the desert, but so far, no luck. Experts tell us that most “space junk” disintegrates upon reentry, yet some make it through unscathed, as photos have shown.

The corridor along the Colorado River behind our house is busy with commercial and private airplanes, including military jets. Quite often, I can hear the fighters yet never spot them. I’m not sure if this is because they’re stealth or my eyes are failing.

Recently, my wife and I have been tuning in to YouTube channels where adventurous guys and gals camp out in the Nevada desert near Area 51, solely to spot unique aircraft prototypes. They use night-vision equipment to do this. This includes both digital and analog goggles/binoculars, with the prices ranging from $50 to over $13,000.

I ordered an economy-priced version with very good reviews from buyers. Hopefully, these glasses will help us see stealth fighters and bombers, along with providing better images of satellites. My main reason for getting them is to view SpaceX flights streaking across the sky after takeoff from Vandenberg Air Force Base in California.

In the reviews for our glasses, purchasers claimed they were great for viewing wildlife at night, with plenty of that in the desert behind our place. We have coyotes sneaking around, with an occasional UWO (unidentified walking object) at night. I suspect them to be bobcats and loose dogs.

With limited use of this new toy, they do brighten the night sky tremendously. Some stars seem almost blinding, much like those repulsive Xenon headlights on select newer cars and trucks. Cupcake Mountain and the surrounding peaks come in very clearly, even at the darkest hours.

Slow-moving satellites are much easier to pick out, and they don’t fade quite as fast using this night vision. I can only imagine how those high-dollar or military-grade versions perform.

Getting back to UFOs, especially those that some folks insist contain alien beings, I’m still a skeptic here. Until I see the real deal, I believe many of these stories are the product of someone’s wild imagination or them jumping to conclusions more than anything else.

Rumor has it that aliens crashed their spacecraft near Kingman in May of 1953 and survived. If true, I suppose they’d still be living in the vicinity. No exact location is mentioned, with the Walmart shopping area being my first guess.

I uncovered no photographs to prove this Kingman rumor, but there’s a restaurant in Yucca cleverly named “The Frying Saucer.” It’s next to that geodesic dome resembling a giant golf ball. My wife and I have yet to eat there, but it’s on our radar.

Reported sightings of flying saucers are akin to those reports of “Bigfoot” and “The Loch Ness Monster.” Why are their photographs always grainy and fuzzy, as if on purpose? I’ve come across blurred photographs of paper plates hanging from strings, with folks jokingly calling them flying saucers.

Artificial intelligence (AI) is already capable of producing realistic fake images, and before long, they’ll undoubtedly be introduced as the “real deal” in many scenarios. Perhaps they already are, and we just don’t know it. The seemingly large crowds at Gavin Newsom rallies come to mind here.

One of my favorite poems regarding life and reality is a short one by Graeme Edge, of the Moody Blues. This 1967 poem, titled “Late Lament,” is oftentimes read at the end of the song “Nights in White Satin.”

Graeme seemed to be a visionary, knowing that as time goes on, it’ll become harder for people to recognize the truth, even when they see it.  Perhaps he understood AI before any of us. The final five lines of this poem sum things up best for me.

“Cold-hearted orb that rules the night,

Removes the colors from our sight.

Red is gray and yellow white.

But we decide which is right.

And which is an illusion.”

Coyote standing in desert vegetation viewed through a night vision scope